“Go,” I said, reaching up to straighten Daniel’s tie. “Be the charming fiancé. I’ll find my little corner of the empire and amuse myself.”
“You don’t have to take this,” he murmured. “Just give me the word and I—”
“And ruin the surprise?” I teased.
The corner of his mouth twitched. He knew me too well.
“Mom…”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Besides, I’m curious.”
“Curious?”
“How far people will go when they think the power in the room belongs to them.”
He studied my face for another second, then nodded. “Don’t have too much fun.”
“No promises.”
He kissed my forehead and let Charlotte pull him toward the front doors, where the first wave of Napa’s carefully curated elite was already spilling into the suite.
I slipped toward the back of the room, blending into the half-shadow near the bar and the kitchen swing doors. From there, I could see everything.
Charlotte became the sun around which the room orbited. She floated from group to group, gown whispering over the tiles, offering hugs and air kisses, laughing just brightly enough to be charming without being shrill. Vivien shadowed her like a well-trained publicist, redirecting conversations, steering certain people together while keeping others apart.
Near the terrace, which overlooked the vineyard-laced hills glowing in the last light of the day, Douglas held court. His voice boomed above the rest, peppered with phrases I’d heard a hundred times from men who’d done well enough to think of themselves as self-made but not well enough to make anyone truly important nervous. “Deal flow.” “Upside.” “Leverage.”
He laughed loudly at his own jokes. His companions laughed slightly quieter, glancing around to see who was watching.
I sipped the champagne a passing server had offered me and let the bubbles glide over my tongue.
“More champagne, ma’am?” a familiar voice asked near my elbow.
I turned and found the same young woman from the elevator—Lucas’s counterpart in grace under pressure. Her name tag read CLARE. Up close, she had that particular kind of poise I recognized immediately: the kind you earn by swallowing a hundred small indignities and choosing not to spit them back out.
“Thank you, Clare,” I said, allowing her to refill my glass. “How long have you worked here?”
She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Uh—three years, ma’am.”
“And how are you finding things these days?”
She hesitated. In hospitality, you learned quickly when not to speak honestly. Saying the wrong thing to the wrong guest could mean a complaint, which could mean a write-up, which could mean fewer shifts, which could mean not being able to pay rent.
“There are a lot of… changes,” she said carefully. “With the new ownership. People are nervous. Lots of rumors.”
“Good ones, I hope,” I replied, watching her face.
“Some.” Her lips twitched, as if fighting the urge to smile. “They say whoever bought the place is… making improvements. Better benefits. Talking about safety and, um, respect. For staff.”
“Sounds promising,” I said.
She nodded, though doubt pinched her brows. “It’s just… for people like us, rumors don’t always mean much. We’ll believe it when we see it.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “For what it’s worth, I—”
“Where’s the mother of the groom?” Douglas’s voice boomed across the room, cutting through the hum of conversation. “Hiding in the kitchen? We can’t have that.”
The room hushed.
Even in the low light, I saw Charlotte’s shoulders stiffen. Vivien’s smile froze, turning brittle.
I exhaled gently. So much for subtlety.
“I suppose that’s my cue,” I murmured to Clare, handing her the now-empty flute.
She stared at me, confused, but stepped back to let me pass.
I walked toward the center of the room, the way I walked into boardrooms: unhurried. The heels of my shoes clicked softly on the marble, an unremarkable sound compared to Douglas Holloway’s laughter.
“There you are,” he said when he spotted me. “Come, come, we can’t have you hiding back there. What do you think of all this?” He spread his arms, nearly sloshing scotch from his glass. “Quite a leap from your usual surroundings, I’d imagine.”
Conversations around us quieted. The circle widened as faces turned toward me. Some were curious, some politely blank, some faintly amused, as if expecting entertainment.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my son. He stood near the terrace, his body angled toward us, watchful.
I let the silence stretch just enough to make some of them shift in their shoes.
“You’re right,” I said, swirling the remaining champagne in my glass. “It is different from my usual surroundings.”
Douglas smirked, mistaking agreement for submission. “I’d imagine so,” he said. “Quite the upgrade from… Where was it again? Fresno? Stockton?”
“Daniel grew up in Oakland,” I said mildly. “I cleaned houses in all three at one point or another.”
A tiny wrinkle appeared between his brows, as if he hadn’t expected me to answer so plainly.
“But you know,” I continued, “I’ve grown very accustomed to penthouses. They’re rather comfortable.” I tipped my head slightly. “Although this one’s east-wing renovation is behind schedule. Permits.” I clicked my tongue softly. “Always a nightmare.”
His smirk faltered.
“How would you know that?” he asked.
Around us, the air shifted, charged now with curiosity rather than casual cruelty. Phones appeared in hands with that surreptitious speed people had perfected in the age of online spectacle.
“The same way I know about the unresolved health code issues in the kitchen,” I said, my voice still gentle. “And the unpaid overtime complaints from staff. Or the fact that your standing reservation was nearly declined last month because the deposit bounced.”
The silence thickened.
Vivien took a step closer, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “Who are you?” she asked, the politeness stripped from her tone now. “Exactly?”
I smiled.
Sometimes, power is loud. It arrives in motorcades and headlines. Tonight, I let mine arrive the way I preferred it: quiet, unexpected, edged in steel.
“I’m just the help,” I said. “Some people call me the owner.” I paused. “Others prefer ‘landlord.’ But my legal signature reads: Isabelle María Romero. Chief Executive Officer of Pacific Ember Properties. And the majority shareholder of the company that bought this resort last summer.”
The sound of glass shattering snapped through the silence. Vivien’s champagne flute had slipped from her hand, crashing onto the marble. Bubbles and shards spread across the floor.
“That’s impossible,” Douglas said. He laughed, a short, disbelieving bark. “Pacific Ember is owned by IR Group.”
I turned toward him, head tilted slightly.
“It is,” I agreed. “Isabelle Romero Group.”
I caught Clare’s eye at the edge of the crowd and handed her my empty glass. Her mouth hung open slightly as she took it.
“I do enjoy an acronym,” I added lightly. “It keeps things more… anonymous.”
The wave moved through the room like a physical thing—shock, realization, recalibration. People who had barely registered my presence earlier now stared as if I’d grown another head. One of the older women near the terrace suddenly looked delighted, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Beside Daniel, Charlotte looked as though someone had cut the strings that held up her spine. Her posture drooped, then stiffened again in an awkward mimicry of composure. Her lip trembled once before she forced it back into line.
“You knew?” she whispered, turning to my son. “All this time? You knew and you never said—”
“Of course he knew,” I said calmly. “He was there when I signed the contracts. He was the one who ordered takeout for me and my lawyers when negotiations ran late.”
“He let me treat you like—” She cut herself off, the word catching in her throat.
Like the help, I thought. Like the staff you sent to the kitchen.
